For weeks I wandered the supermarket aisles scrutinizing male countenances, searching for an indication of acquaintance and pivoting with a reproving retort on my lips each time I was accidentally nudged. When nothing dramatic occurred I began weaving fantasies about the Audi driver, dismissing the stalker theory and conjuring up an image of a tall, lean individual with eyes like the deepening twilight, sun-browned skin, and silky black hair. He would carry the Telegraph and a multicoloured golfing umbrella - the latter, together with his car, being the only colours he allowed himself to display. To my inventive mind the sombreness of his attire was the cause of his obsession with the cartoon character on my dilapidated car.
On cue the church clock struck the hour as if to confirm the time. Perfect, I thought, tearing out the page on which to scribble my reply. Yes, I wrote, using my green ballpoint pen, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.